


Bitter-sweet coffee

by xantissa



Category: X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-14
Updated: 2013-04-14
Packaged: 2017-12-08 12:28:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/761312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xantissa/pseuds/xantissa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He just doesn’t feel like sleeping…</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bitter-sweet coffee

**Author's Note:**

> All my X-men stories are among the first ever written in English and the first ever posted online. Written around 1999 -2005. The standard of writting is not what it could be but no author has hatched perfectly formed. Still, someone might find it worth a look.

Logan’s POV

 

The night is quiet. It smells of wet grass and dark, deep forests here in the mansion.

I stand motionless in the darkness of my room and watch the world outside. I feel out of place in this place of concrete and steel, the trees outside more of my world than this. But I don’t belong entirely there either. 

I reach out and touch the polished wood of the window frame. If I concentrate I can feel every roughness on the polished surface, every fault.

My nostrils flare as I take in the scent of the world outside. I know that the winter is coming fast, I can feel the way the nature hides and slowly dies, only to be reborn in few months. And as always at this time of year I feel restless, out of place. My wanderlust is making my skin crawl, and hands itch to do something, to pack and leave.

But I will not leave.

And it is not a sense of obligation that keeps me here in Washington, it is not even the belief in the cause. It is something so much easier, so much simpler. 

I wait quietly at the open window ‘till I can smell it again.

Coffee.

Black, spicy and strong. It smells bitter but enticing and there is a kind of sweetness to it.

Not really thinking about anything else than the smell of the black, thick liquid I leave my room and head to the kitchen.

The scent here is stronger. It reminds me of hot, humid nights somewhere warm. I can almost feel the touch of humid air on my skin, and taste the sweetness of air on my tongue.

As I enter the kitchen I am not surprised to see him there. It’s his ritual, one I’ve kept disturbing for so many weeks.

The only light in the room comes from the small lamp placed under the kitchen shelves. 

He stands over the stove waiting for the water to boil. During the night like this, when there are only a few people in the Mansion, he comes down to the kitchen and makes coffee in a traditional way. It’s so strange to watch him do something I have never seen anyone else do.

He takes the strange pot filled with partially prepared coffee and starts adding some spices to the bitter liquid.

He knows I am here and I watch him. His acknowledgment, however, is nothing more than the extra amount of water in the pot, a pinch more of the spices so that when he leaves the kitchen, his eyes dark and hooded and face pale, I will be able to fill second cup with the delicious, bitter-sweet liquid he makes. 

On the nights like this, when he performs the little ritual, he never speaks to me, nor does he ever fill the second cup personally. He leaves some for me, but it’s almost as if it was a mistake, a coincidence. 

I watch his hands, those long fingered beautiful hands of a master thief and feel something in my chest tighten.

Quietly, I go to the table and sit on one of the chair, knowing full well that talking to him would be only a waste of time. He would just finish making his coffee and leave. And I don’t want this.

He is so different at night. His restless energy is gone, his body moving with liquid grace, more relaxed than ever before. And his silver tongue is also quiet. No words pass his lips when he brews his bitter ambrosia.

In some ways he is like the black coffee he drinks. 

Sharp to the point of danger. Sweet so much, you could feel him in your mouth for days and better like the life itself. But he is also invigorating, ever moving, ever feeling, ever experiencing the life.

Unlike me, he is not surviving his life. He takes each sip of it with joy and tastes it ‘till each and every nuance of life is known to him and appreciated. And I know that he is more alive that I could ever be.

I watch his loose hair touch his shoulder with only the ends and if I concentrate, I can almost hear the soft sound of the silky strands moving over his skin. The thin tee he wears has obviously been washed too many times. It’s so thin I can almost see his golden skin through it and it’s clinging to his thin, yet very muscled body like a lover’s caress.

His long legs are encased in the torn jeans he loves wearing on debriefings, which annoys Cyke to no end. 

His face is in shadows and I can’t see it even with my enhanced sight. But I think that I wouldn’t know what he felt even if he stood in the bright sun of day. After all, so many know him and no one really knows what he hides under the façade of an annoying, fun seeking kid.

When he moves, the muscles in his back tense and relax, shift under the skin. He is so beautiful and so mysterious. I have known him for years, but I don’t think I know anything about him. 

Except his scent. This I know very well. I could hunt him in a city full of people, his unique, one of kind scent would lead me to him always.

It’s so much like the coffee he brews at night. Hot, filled with spices I don’t know and strong. Strong, bitter-sweet like the coffee he drinks. 

I sit in silence and watch him finish. He pours the coffee into a cup and I know he will be leaving soon, taking the warmth and the life with himself, leaving only the bitter-sweet scent behind. 

He holds the mug between his hands, and I know they are cold even if I don’t touch him. I don’t need to. It’s in his eyes, in his face.

I watch the frown between his brows relax, and his alien, red on black eyes close a little as the warmth seeps into his body, taking the chill away.

I close my eyes finally and lean my head on the wall behind me. I don’t like to see him go away. It always makes something in me clench and hurt. So I close my eyes and wait, listen to him put away the spices and I know that every time he leaves I loose something of me. Something always goes away with him.

Finally it’s quiet in the kitchen. So quiet, I could almost think that I was alone in the world. 

But the smell is still too strong and when I open my eyes I am surprised at the sight of a single, white cup of coffee sitting quietly on the table in front of me. Something inside me tightens when I reach for the hot, incredibly good liquid and inhale its bitter-sweet smell. 

He has never before acknowledged me, not like this anyway.

And when I taste the beverage I can feel its thickness coat my throat in the most pleasurable way. 

And when I swallow it I know that I will be able to taste it for hours, coating my tongue, filling me with hot, spicy taste. And if I close my eyes again, hold my hand tightly around the hot cup, feeling the warmth seep into my bones all I can think of is that it must be the way that he tastes.

Hot, spicy and bitter-sweet like the black coffee in my hands. 

 

the end  
08-01-2005


End file.
